Elenora stared at the tray. The smell of the cold soup was greasy and metallic. Rage, sudden and hot, flared in her chest. It overrode the fear.

She swung her arm out.

The tray went flying. The bowl hit the wall and shattered. Cold broth and chunks of vegetables splattered against the silk wallpaper and dripped down to the carpet. The crash was loud, satisfying.

"I am not a dog, Fitzgerald," she said. Her voice shook, but she held her chin high.

Fitzgerald watched the soup ruin the wallpaper. He didn't blink. He slowly turned his head to look at her. The amusement was gone. His eyes were flat, black pools.

He pushed off the doorframe.

He took a step toward her. Then another.

Elenora scrambled back on the bed until her spine hit the headboard. There was nowhere to go.

He reached her. He didn't strike her. He leaned in, placing his hands on the mattress on either side of her hips, trapping her.

"Your value right now," he said, his voice a low rumble in his chest, "is less than a dog."

The proximity of him brought another memory crashing down on her.

The hospital corridor. Ten years ago.

Elenora was walking down the hall, her heels clicking on the linoleum. She was wearing a fur coat that cost more than the MRI machine in the room next door.

She saw Fitzgerald. He was pleading with a doctor. His voice was desperate, cracking. He needed an extension on the payment.

Beside him stood a nurse. A student nurse. Britni Bird. She had her hand on Fitzgerald's arm, rubbing it soothingly. She looked up at him with wide, watery eyes.

Elenora felt something ugly twist in her gut. It wasn't just disgust at his poverty. It was... something else. Something that felt like possessiveness.

She marched up to them.

"Woodard," she said, her voice echoing. "Is this why you won't polish my car? You're too busy playing man for this charity case?"

Britni flinched. She hid behind Fitzgerald.

Fitzgerald spun around. He put his arm out to shield the nurse. "Elenora, stop. Not here."

Elenora laughed. She opened her clutch. She pulled out a hundred-dollar bill. She crumpled it and threw it. It hit Britni in the face.

"A tip," Elenora sneered. "Stay away from my dog."

Britni started to cry. Fitzgerald shoved Elenora. Hard. She stumbled back into the wall. It was the first time he had ever touched her in anger.

The memory dissolved.

Fitzgerald's hand was on her throat.

Reality snapped back. He wasn't shoving her. He was choking her. His fingers wrapped around her windpipe, thumb pressing into the soft hollow of her throat.

"Do you remember?" he hissed. His face was inches from hers. "Do you remember how you treated her?"

Elenora clawed at his wrist. Her nails dug into his skin, but his arm was like granite. Black spots danced in her vision. Her lungs burned.

"She... is... a liar..." Elenora choked out. The words were barely air.

Fitzgerald's grip tightened. "Shut up. You don't get to speak her name."

The pressure was immense. Elenora's vision tunneled. Just when she thought her throat would collapse, he let go.

She fell sideways onto the mattress, gasping, coughing violently. She sucked in air, her throat screaming in protest.

Fitzgerald stood up. He loomed over her, adjusting his cuffs.

"Clean it up," he said, pointing to the mess on the floor.

Elenora looked at the shattered ceramic and the stain.

"And eat it," he added.

Elenora looked up, horror chilling her blood. "What?"

"Eat it off the floor," Fitzgerald said. "Or I call the hospital and tell them to stop your father's medication for the night."

Elenora froze. The threat was a physical blow.

She looked at the floor. The soup was soaking into the rug. Shards of white ceramic glinted in the mess.

She crawled off the bed. Her knees hit the carpet. She moved toward the spill. Tears blurred her vision, hot and stinging.

Fitzgerald watched. He didn't leave. He stood there, a sentinel of cruelty.

Elenora reached for a piece of potato that had fallen on the rug. Her hand trembled. She put it in her mouth. She swallowed. It tasted like dust and shame.

She heard Fitzgerald inhale sharply. She glanced up.

He was looking at her with an expression she couldn't read. It looked like triumph, but his jaw was clenched so tight a muscle ticked in his cheek. He looked... repulsed by her submission, as if it were a mirror to his own monstrosity.

He turned on his heel and stormed out, slamming the door so hard the walls shook.

Elenora was left alone in the dark, chewing on grit and tears.

The fever took her in the night.

She was burning up, but her teeth chattered with cold. She curled into a ball on the floor, unable to make it back to the bed. The darkness of the room swirled, pulling her down into the deepest, darkest memory of all.

The night. The rain. The club.

Elenora was in the back of her father's limousine. The leather seats were warm. She had a glass of champagne in her hand. The bubbles fizzed against her nose.

Outside, the world was drowning.

A figure ran up to the car. He banged on the window.

It was Fitzgerald. He was soaked to the bone. His hair was plastered to his skull. His eyes were wild.

Elenora rolled the window down two inches.

"I need five thousand," Fitzgerald begged. He didn't even say hello. "The surgery... the deposit... they won't operate. Please."

Elenora took a sip of her drink. She looked at him. She saw the desperation. And she remembered the nurse. She remembered how he looked at Britni.

She felt that ugly twisting thing in her gut again.

"Begging requires humility, Woodard," she said. Her voice was ice.

Fitzgerald froze. "What do you want?"

Elenora pointed a manicured finger at the puddle of oil and rainwater on the asphalt.

"Kneel. Beg me."

The people waiting in line for the club turned to look. Someone laughed. A phone came out, the camera flash going off.

Fitzgerald looked toward the hospital, miles away. He looked at the ground.

He dropped.

His knees hit the pavement with a crack that Elenora felt in her own bones. The water splashed up, soaking his cheap trousers.

"Please," he said. His head hung low. "Save my mother."

Elenora felt a rush of power. But underneath it, panic. She didn't want him to kneel. She wanted him to... look at her. To see her.

She checked her nails. She took another sip. She made him wait.

"Louder," she said. "I can't hear you over the rain."

Fitzgerald opened his mouth to scream his plea.

But his phone rang.

The sound cut through the rain. He fumbled for it with wet hands. He answered it.

Elenora watched his back. She saw his spine stiffen. She saw the phone slip from his fingers. It hit the puddle. The screen shattered.

He didn't move. He stayed on his knees. Then, a sound tore out of him. A roar. A howl. It wasn't human. It was the sound of a soul ripping in half.

"She's gone," he whispered to the asphalt.

Elenora dropped her glass. It shattered on the floor of the car.

"No," she whispered. "I was just... I was just playing."

Fitzgerald turned his head. His eyes were red. Capillaries had burst. He looked like a demon.

"Elenora Vang," he said. The voice wasn't his. "I curse you. One day, you will kneel. You will beg for death, and I won't give it to you."

Elenora screamed.

She woke up screaming.

The room was pitch black. Her throat was on fire. Her body felt like it was being crushed by a vice.

She tried to stand, to get water. Her legs gave way. She collapsed onto the floor.

She lay there, her cheek pressed against the cold wood. The fever raged.

She hadn't held a gun, but she had held the clock. She had been the gatekeeper to the minutes that mattered most. The thought was a poison, seeping into her, making her complicit in a death she never intended.

And now, the curse was here.

The sliver of light that cut through the heavy velvet curtains was an assault. It hit Elenora's eyes like a physical blow.

The door opened.

A maid walked in, carrying a basket of towels. She saw Elenora crumpled on the floor and gasped. She dropped the basket and rushed forward.

"Miss!"

"Don't touch her."

The command came from the hallway. Fitzgerald walked in. He was wearing running clothes-grey sweatpants and a tight black shirt that clung to his chest. He was sweating. He radiated heat and vitality.

The maid froze, backing away with her head down.

Fitzgerald walked over to Elenora. He didn't bend down. He nudged her shoulder with his running shoe.

"Get up," he said. "Don't play dead."

Elenora peeled her eyes open. The room spun. Her tongue felt like sandpaper.

"Water," she croaked.

Fitzgerald stared at her flushed face. He saw the sweat beading on her forehead. He turned to the side table and picked up a glass carafe of water. He poured a glass. The ice clinked against the crystal.

Elenora reached out a shaking hand.

Fitzgerald tipped the glass.

He poured the water onto the carpet, inches from her fingers.

"You want water?" he asked. "Go to the bathroom."

Elenora watched the water soak into the fibers. Tears welled in her eyes, hot and stinging. She didn't have the energy to curse him.

She gritted her teeth. She pushed herself up. Her arms trembled violently. She dragged herself to her feet, swaying like a sapling in a gale.

She took a step. Then another.

As she passed Fitzgerald, her knees buckled.

She fell forward.

Fitzgerald's hands shot out. It was instinct. He caught her by the arms before she hit the floor.

Her body slammed against his. Through his thin shirt, he felt her heat. She was burning up. Like a furnace.

For a second, his grip tightened. His thumb brushed the inside of her arm. His eyes widened, a flash of something like panic crossing his face.

Then he shoved her.

He pushed her away as if she were contagious.

Elenora stumbled back and hit the doorframe of the bathroom. Her forehead cracked against the wood. A trickle of blood ran down into her eyebrow.

"Are you trying to infect me?" he snapped, wiping his hands on his pants.

Elenora touched her head. Her fingers came away red. The pain sharpened her mind, cutting through the fever fog.

"If you want me dead, just do it," she whispered. "Why torture me?"

Fitzgerald stepped into her space. He grabbed her face, his fingers digging into the cut on her forehead.

"Death is an escape," he hissed. "You are my property, Elenora. You don't get to die until I say so."

He turned to the wall panel and punched a button.

"Send the doctor up," he barked.

He looked back at her.

"Give her a shot. A vitamin cocktail. Something with a stimulant. I don't care what it takes. Just keep her breathing."

He walked to the armchair in the corner and sat down, pulling a tablet onto his lap.

"Tonight," he said, not looking at her, "you have a performance. An old friend is coming."

Elenora slid down the doorframe to the floor. The doctor arrived minutes later. The needle stung her arm. The drugs flooded her system, making her heart race, forcing her body to function when it wanted to shut down.

Fitzgerald sat there, reading stocks, ignoring her ragged breathing.